


Ninja Turtles

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (I can't believe I just made a tag for that), (sorta) - Freeform, Alien Biology, Alien Sex, Bottom Yondu Udonta, Cannibalism, Comedic Infanticide, Egg Laying, Eggpreg, M/M, Medical Trauma, Mpreg, Past Abuse, Porn With Plot, Switching, Top Kraglin Obfonteri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-03 00:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11520957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: “Don't freak out,” said Yondu. A cuff of blue fingers sealed on Kraglin's wrist. The thumbnail – naturally pointed and, Kraglin assumed, in need of regular filing, like a rodent's tooth – dug into his pulsepoint.Kraglin wondered if cap'n felt it thump at those words. In his experience, pre-coital warnings meant he was in for fun.





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> **A smutterific 5 chapter Kragdu + Quill fic, featuring Kraglin and Yondu with Interesting Alien Anatomy. Inspired by the 99th Ravager Faction discord!**

“Don't freak out,” said Yondu.

 

A cuff of blue fingers sealed on Kraglin's wrist. The thumbnail – naturally pointed and, Kraglin assumed, in need of regular filing, like a rodent's tooth – dug into his pulse.

Kraglin wondered if cap'n felt it thump at those words. In his experience, pre-coital warnings meant he was in for  _fun._

 

“I won't,” he promised, and managed not to sound like his mouth was watering.

 

He eyed the bulge in his captain's pants, the one he'd set his sights on when he first got assigned to the 99th Regiment. At the time, he thought that he'd seen enough of the galaxy to get his measure of it. He'd been wrong.

 

But now, five years later, a Ravager (part of a banished faction any self-respecting scumbag would spit at), and a first mate at that (to a captain whose prowess on the battlefield was only marginally less infamous than his greatest sin: the breaking of Ogordian code) Kraglin's cocksure confidence had returned.

He'd fucked his way through a decent selection of species. Been fucked  _by_ a couple as well – because hey, you had to try it, at least once. He was mature enough now, at the grand old age of twenty-two, to know his tastes. These were, in order: blue skin, attitude, a cock to suck, and something tight to dip his dick in. 

To be fair, Kraglin wasn't sure whether those tastes had developed before or after he met Yondu. Perhaps they had always lurked in his subconscious: a dormant affinity for being ordered around, yelled at, and splaying his fingers over as much blue flesh as possible? Either way, those desires got a jumpstart when his gutsy loudmouth of a cap'n swaggered into his life.

 

Really, it was amazing they hadn't done this sooner.

 

But as tempting as it was to wrench down the fly zipper and dive in, Kraglin wanted to savor this. Eke out the anticipation, just a little longer.

Kraglin held the pull between finger and thumb. He forced himself still, tugging just enough to tent the leather over Yondu's crotch but not enough to unfasten it.

 

What flavor of treat awaited him? Tentacular? Ridged? Maybe there was a slit beneath, soft and sweet, wet as a split peach. Maybe something else entirely. While Kraglin had yet to work up the guts to embrace the galaxy's whackier genitalia range – the spore-releasers and the ovipositors and the detachables and the like – he was sure he'd be willing to make an exception for cap'n.

Yondu lacked Kraglin's patience.

 

“C'mon already! Or I comm Tullk and get him to pick up where you left o-”

 

Zip.

 

After all that build up, it was a disappointment to be faced with a soft blue dick that wasn’t irregular, as far as the eye could see, in any way, shape or form.

 

Kraglin frowned. Then schooled his expression, in case Yondu though he was reconsidering. He leaned in, treating the head to a kiss, wet-mouthed and sloppy, guaranteed to perk it...

Yondu hauled him back by the Mohawk. “Packer, idjit. Here.”

 

He pressed an invisible button. There was a quiet clunk, followed by a silence that was only noticeable because the whir that preceded it had become ambient. The camo-field disengaged. Then the entire faux-cock peeled away, color fading to gray – then, when it hit the floor, to the streaky-red of the Bridge plating.

Kraglin had followed it down. Now he looked back up again, guts writhing serpentine in anticipation...

And found.

Well.

“Um.”

 

His captain was a motley mess of scars, navy tattoos, and dirt. He lounged on his seat bare-chested, bar the heavy gold-link chains draped around his neck. His pants were split down the center, blue dividing greasy brown. His jaw was bristly with stubble, and what he lacked vertically he made up for with stocky, dense-packed muscle. Damn near oozed power from his greasy pores.

But there, at his groin? Yondu rocked about as much meat as the dollies they sold to brats at the Xandarian markets. Nothing there but blank plastic.

 

For the first time in Kraglin's long and chequered sexual history, he wasn't sure how to work with this.

There was a crotch, alright. But it was perfectly smooth, free from all protrusions or divots. Just blue, hairless and smooth. A sleek stripe of skin, swooping between Yondu's legs to the crease of his ass. Not even a visible urethra - although perhaps that was located further back, for his species.

 

Kraglin glanced up. Yondu had said not to freak out, and he wasn't. But it was mighty hard to be  _enthusiastic_  when there wasn't anything to arouse. He did his best not to look at the arrow, in its harness on Yondu's hip. He also did his best not to imagine it sticking out of his eyeball.

Kraglin had been fighting and scrapping and clawing out the occasional throat since was old enough to wield a knife (so around four, by his reckoning). But he had seen Yondu mow down flarking  _armies._ One rack-thin hairball of a Hraxian wasn't gonna be much challenge. 

 

Yondu's poker face wasn't reassuring. But he must have decided that he wanted to get off more than he wanted to heave a body to the nearest airlock – because there was no whistle and no ribbon of red radiation, and no blistering, agonizing death.

Rather, Yondu grumbled something under his breath about  _ex-Corps idjits_ and  _gotta do everything myself round here._ He positioned Kraglin's hand, pressing it to his pelvic bone, between the scratch of the parted zipper and the curves of his thighs.

 

Kraglin was skittish. Any man would be, were he in a situation where the slightest mistake could earn him an arrow. He flinched as nails bit skin, and again when Yondu slouched against the chairback, glowering. But this was a chance for redemption. Kraglin wasn't stupid enough to look the gift-genitalia in the warts. (Yondu didn't have any visible, but Kraglin'd popped anti-venereals beforehand, just in case.)

As Bridge crew, Kraglin was the proud owner of a private cabin. It was kinda pokey, but there was enough room to swing a cat – or fuck a Centaurian, for that matter. However, rather than retreating to it (or better yet, inviting Kraglin to his own pelt-lined bed) Yondu had grinned at him, a flash of yellowed eyeteeth that made the bifurcated prongs of Kraglin's cock twitch, and locked the clamper on the Bridge door before the next shift could arrive.

 

The  _Eclector,_  as was the case with most ships, didn't broadcast her weak-point to every missile in the vicinity. The Bridge was deep inside her, protected by a potbelly of hullplates, dormitories and gunports. Projections splashed across screens. They marked the galleon's position relative to all objects detectable by radar or camera feed: reds and yellows and greens, more garish than the neon signs outside Contraxian strip joints, constantly merging in and out of one another. Flourishes of solar radiation swirled over a screen in a corner, while another projected the locations of the nearest jump-points in a holographic arc, curving overhead like the Asgardian Bifrost.

It lit the dank, low-ceilinged room bright as a Ravager funeral. Like the lights of Ogord that would never flash over Yondu or Kraglin's graves. It was the closest either of them were gonna come to heaven, this grubby hole in a pirate ship, and they knew it.

But if there wasn't anything waiting for them in the afterlife, that left all the more reason to make this good while it lasted.

 

There was  _something_ there, Kraglin realized. He shifted his elbow to a more comfortable position, and felt how Yondu's grunt was followed by the warm press of his body into the cradle of his hand. 

He felt smooth. Soft to the touch. Kraglin cupped it like he would a Hraxian woman's cunt, watching Yondu closely. No clues, no tells. No indication whether or not this was what the cap'n wanted – other than the fact that Kraglin had yet to drown in his own blood.

As far as cap’n was concerned, that was crystal clear.

 

Kraglin rocked his palm, noting the pliancy of the flesh. It bulged under pressure, like he was squashing a foam ball, smushing the soft lump back against Yondu's pelvis. Yondu promptly wriggled and gasped, and Kraglin took that as his cue to do so again – and again, when Yondu huffed something scathing against his scarred bare shoulder, tugging his wrist to spur him on.

Heat radiated from between his legs. The warmth was surprising – like he was holding a piping dumpling, fresh from the galley's stewpot. Perhaps if he got Yondu going, something would happen? Wham, hey presto, sudden pussy; that sorta thing? At least then Kraglin would know what he was dealing with.

 

The lump seemed sized to fit in his hand. He stroked its length, earning himself a twitch of thick thighs and a bunch of Yondu's mouth, even the first hints of a moan. Yet no lips pressed out to meet him. There was enough slick to make up for it though. At least, Kraglin  _thought_ that was what it was – oilier than sweat, scented like pepper and leather and something Kraglin had no frame of reference to describe.

 

It seeped from Yondu's skin, bubbling from hidden glands. Kraglin shrugged. Seemed like this was working. He flexed his palm back and forth, alternating between rubbing with the ball of his thumb and the base of his fingers. 

Whatever he was doing, cap'n enjoyed it. Slick leaked in a steady stream. Still no pussy. No sprouting cock, unfurling to his touch. Just the scuff of leather over metal as Yondu ground his groin on the seat of Kraglin's palm.

 

Kraglin put his spare hand to use. He popped the crotch panel on his jumpsuit. His dicks rolled out as soon as he wrestled the underwear out the way: two slim shafts that were fun separately and daunting if you took 'em together, not to mention the knot beyond.

He squeezed the halves together. A few drops from Yondu made the pass of his hand, bunching foreskin and dragging at the uninflated globes of his knot, frictionless.

 

Kraglin swallowed his sigh. Looked like he wasn't gonna be plowing no holes today. But, he realized belatedly, this wasn't so bad. And, perhaps, it could be even better.

“Can I?” he asked.

Yondu, shuddering into each touch, nodded. He knotted one hand in Kraglin's hair, led him down, down, down, until his breath broke across damp flesh.

 

Kraglin blew over him. He kept his eyes up, wanting to watch Yondu's face. Then he flattened his tongue to the nubbin's underside, and licked.

 

He  _quivered._

He tasted tangy. Surprisingly nice. Not sweet - but then again, what about Yondu was?

 

Yondu damn near  _writhed._ Somewhere along the line, he remembered he was captain, and rather than just mussing Kraglin's hair, he started to  _yank_ it.

“Faster, boy, faster – fuck. Yeah, thassit, don'tchu dare slack on me, else it's the airlock...”

 

If anything, the threats turned Kraglin on more. He groaned, speeding his pumps to match the flutter of his tongue. His dicks throbbed hard enough to wedge his fingers apart, and the knot was going to start filling, any moment...

 

Not yet though. He couldn’t cum until his captain did. That was basic courtesy.

 

Kraglin concentrated very, very hard on the ache in his scalp. It helped, as did the tonguing. He had to concentrate on co-ordination; it made his own need blur into the background. It was uncomfortable, yes, but not overwhelming. He’d be fine so long as he kept this up: three counts of a flutter, then one drawn out lave that dragged the flat of his tongue around the mound from bottom to top. Drool added to the damp stain that spread across the back-peeled crotchpiece of Yondu's pants.

Kraglin's knees protested as he changed his angle, ducking to pay the base of the mound attention. Leather provided little in the way of cushioning, not when sandwiched between bony shins and an uneven floorplate. And as much as he'd like to, he couldn't keep this up forever. Thankfully, this wasn’t required.

 

“Yeah, boy! More, c'mon, nearly there...”

Kraglin, jaw aching and tongue shifting clumsier with every fast flick, was just wondering how he'd know when Yondu came, when his captain's spine winched rigid. 

His thighs squeezed, trapping him in place. His chest pushed out, necklaces thumping on his ribs, sweat making blue nipples shine. His abdominal muscles twitched three times, each more intense than the last, and the slick's consistency changed from milky to web-like. Gummy threads stretched between Yondu's groin and Kraglin’s mouth.

 

“Ah! Fuck! Krags-”

 

Honestly, Kraglin was just impressed he hadn't ripped out any of his hair.

 

Now Kraglin had done his duty, he focused on the burn in his own business. He lavished attention first on one dick, then the other. He shifted the skin up and down, scooping another slick handful to ease the rasp – muttering “sorry” at Yondu's shudder. Then he clasped the pair together and pumped.

 

Yondu's inner thighs had been rubbed ocean-blue by his stubble. Kraglin rested on the nearest. He let his groan break over his captain's sticky crotch. When he glanced up, he found Yondu more dishevelled and inelegant than Kraglin had ever seen him. _D_ _amn_ if there wasn't something sexy about seeing him like this: coat slipped from his shoulders and opened pants seeping, crotch creamed with slick.

 

Kraglin, with the wobbly reasoning of the soon-to-cum, considered the road ahead. It was as forked as the dick in his hand. On the one hand, there was release. Nice and simple, cut and dry. Cap'n came, he came. Then the pair of 'em sponged off, shook hands and got back to business.

On the other hand? Well, Kraglin could always roll his sore tongue over cap'n as gently as possible, and find out if he could multiple. For science, or something.

 

One leg remained hooked over Kraglin's shoulder, pillowing his bristly cheek. The other had drooped to rest on the chairarm. At Kraglin's next tentative dabble, that leg twitched. Then clenched – as did the other. Kraglin's face was lifted an inch, on a swell of blue muscle. Then, with a grunt and a huff, Yondu re-positioned himself with one on each side of his head, while Kraglin set to testing his hypothesis.

 

Results manifested in swift succession.

 

Now that first hurdle was out the way, it was effortless to have his captain juddering against him, rubbing himself over Kraglin's lips, tongue, and stubble. The beard was the kicker – Yondu's jaw dropped and he spat out a harsh rattle, followed by spitty-mouthed clicks.

Kraglin capitalized on his inability to issue orders. He was operating on instinct rather than brainpower – certainly, there was very little blood left in his head, the majority having migrated to the filling knot. He nudged his stiff tongue tip into him, pressing it deep in that soft little mound. Then followed up with a sideswipe of his beard that had Yondu all-out _hollering_. His boot heels mashed Kraglin's shoulderblades. He rocked his hips against Kraglin's chin, hissing at the raw scrape.

 

And Kraglin? Kraglin shut his eyes. He drew the entire plush lump into his mouth, and hollowed his cheeks around it while his knot filled his fist and he squirted twin streaks of cum up the chair base.

 

Yondu made some sort of noise, and it was most likely exquisite. It was a shame Kraglin missed it. But he was too busy relishing his own orgasm: the shaking wave of heat that descended through him, throbbing so hard his vision fuzzed.

 

Once he’d wrung out the last, he released the mound with a noisy slurp that would've made him giggle, under any other circumstances. Cum leaked over his hand, which kept the ring of his knot restrained, mimicking the vice of a Hraxian cunt.

Yondu didn't have one of those. But the round of flesh between his legs, puffing purple thanks to Kraglin's lovebite, was just as lovely.

 

The way he collapsed against the chair, one hand flopped over his eyes and the other snaking down to fend off further assault, chest swelling and shrinking with a growl that reminded Kraglin of misfiring M-ships, was lovelier still. Downright amazing, in fact. Or so Kraglin might think, if he was a mushy sorta guy.

 

He licked slime from his lips. Cleared his throat. Winced as he shifted, pins and needles stabbing, and scooted back from the danger zone.

“Sensitive?” he asked, once speech facilities had returned. Returned- _ish._  It came out as one long slur, syllables drawled into one.

 

Yondu got the gist. He nodded. 

 

Kraglin hadn't retreated far enough – thighs clamped on his neck, keeping him close. He couldn't stop smiling. There was probably a significant suffocation risk, as his throat was bracketed by meaty blue muscle on both sides. But in that moment, Kraglin couldn't think of a better way to go.

They stayed like that for a while. How long, Kraglin had no way of knowing. The watch wasn't much use – he hadn't been tracking the time, and while he  _could_ work it out by subtracting the hour his shift ended from the one currently displaying, he hadn't yet rebuilt that level of brain function. 

 

He hoped it was long enough that the next crew rotation had given up on waiting for cap’n to finish his meeting, and had stalked off to make themselves useful elsewhere. Yondu might have the confidence to strut out of a sex-stinking Bridge with his head held high, but Kraglin'd melt from the shame.

He also figured he'd better check – because you could never could be too careful, playing with equipment that didn't fit the standard binary. “You did cum, yeah?” 

 

Yondu's nod was more a neck spasm. “Three times, I reckon,” he croaked. He still sounded breathless, although he was, to Kraglin's disappointment, trying to hide it. “My pouch's damn near full.”

“Hm.” It said a lot for the post-coital satisfaction, that the weirdness of that phrase took so long to percolate. “Um. What?”

“Yeah.” Yondu scratched down, towards where balls would sit if he had 'em. His jaw cracked around a yawn, and he stretched with his arms above his head, ass skidding towards the chair edge. His boots flexed for the doors, legs cranked straight with Kraglin knelt between. 

Once he had worked kinks from every muscle – Kraglin should know; he'd been counting as they contracted and released, squeezing his knot all the while – Yondu let his feet sag to the floor, and pointed to his stomach.

 

Surely it was Kraglin's imagination. But didn't his gut look a little... paunchier, than before?

 

“Internal bits, 'n all,” Yondu said. He patted his belly, and Kraglin blinked at how far his hand sunk in – as if it was full of water, or unset gelatin. “Don't know much about Centaurian ladies, havin' never had the pleasure of meetin' one. But I'd reckon that they come with an egg-thingie. Stick that in pouch, release eggs, press nub, release jizz. S'like electronic switches, or some shit.”

 _Oh._ That flap of skin on Yondu's front – Kraglin had assumed it was a cut from an old knife wound – suddenly made a lot more sense. As did the padding on his tummy, which was just as jiggly as it looked when Kraglin rested a wondering hand on top of it.

The seal wasn't watertight. Yondu's nose scrunched when Kraglin pushed, and frothy white bubbled around the slice. It puddled on his coat, laid beneath them as a stinking towel. The garment was already stained past the point where a quick blast in the steam rooms could salvage it, and so, Kraglin reasoned, it wasn't as if they could make it  _dirtier_. 

 

Nevertheless, Yondu glared. “Quit it.”

 

Kraglin did. His eyes were as round as his knot, and he shuffled against the chilly floor, lifting one leg after the other in an effort to entice the bloodflow. “That's so -”

“If ya say 'weird', I kick ya in the teeth.”

“-Awesome. How d'you clean it out?”

“I do what any man'd do. Stick a shower hose in there, grin, and bear it.” Kraglin wasn't planning on feeling about inside – not without express permission. But he was still strung out from the orgasm, and the hand not clutching his knot made a twitch for the pouchlip regardless.

 

Yondu smacked him away. “S'for kiddos, not screwin'. Anyway, s'all foamy and shit.”

That only made Kraglin want to play with it  _more._ But this was his cap'n, and Kraglin was nothing if not a loyal mate. He returned his hand to his lap, scolding it in the privacy of his mind. It joined his other, kneading the globes of his knot. Yondu nodded to that in turn, and the limp shafts draped over it.

 

“That s'pposed to keep yer lady full until she takes?”

Kraglin nodded.

“You can cram it in my ass next time, so long as ya lube it up first."

Simple and matter-of-fact. Like they were just two men giving each other a helping hand. But Kraglin saw the smirk crimping a dimple into Yondu's cheek, and his own grew to match it.

 

“Next time, sir?”

“Yeah.”

 

Kraglin wiped his lower jaw. Slick shimmered in his beard hairs, making them sleek as if they'd been oiled. 

“Next time,” he said, twizzling his greasy moustache, and smiling when he found he could still taste Yondu on his lips. “I'll finger enough of this stuff outta ya to slick up yer ass, boss.”

Yondu tongued the point of a chipped incisor. His smile had defected to his eyes. “Deal, Obfonteri,” he said.

 

* * *

 

 

How long did it take for two men of similar-ish age and sexual appetites to settle into a rhythm? In Yondu and Kraglin's case, the answer was a year.

 

Harried in the morning, slow and lazy at night. Frantic and furious after a bust job, and mellowly victorious when following a successful raid. If Stakar's ships crossed their radars they fucked hard, and blamed their lurching gaits the next day on bouts in the training rings. If Yondu had taken a bot-hooker first, Kraglin made it extra slow, extra special. Not because he was insecure _,_ but...

Well, maybe a little bit because that. What did Yondu even  _get_ out of the hookers? If they'd both had dicks, Kraglin's could've understood it, because – well, there was some equipment he simply didn’t have on offer. But Yondu didn't.

 

Bots came in many shapes and sizes, with as many types of interchangeable genitalia as there were galaxies in the universe. However, that led to the possibility that Kraglin's own tackle, designed to slot into the forked vagina of a Hraxian female, wasn't always satisfying. As confronting Yondu about anything of this nature was guaranteed to end with a reminder that they'd never made any claims of exclusivity, and possibly an accusation of sentiment thrown in for good measure, Kraglin had learnt to keep his mouth shut, clamp down on the fear of inadequacy, and to strive his utmost to make his cap'n mewl.

This was a tricky task, but far from impossible.

Through a blend of trial, error, and repetition, Kraglin had worked out some favorite positions. The first, and most common, involved variations on a theme. On his back, cap'n riding his mouth. Knelt between Yondu's legs, licking so long and so hard that he swore his tongue muscles felt firmer after each workout. And, one time as a special treat, arranging a localized gravity lull in the cap'n's quarters, so that he could hoist Yondu halfway up the wall, and eat him out without throwing every single vertebrae out of alignment.

 

The second – having his boss bend him over a console and strap a silicone erection to his crotch, the base of which base ground maddeningly on his nub with every thrust – was rarely enjoyed. An occasional treat, savored only when they were both in the mood for it. Best of all, in Kraglin's opinion, was the third. There was nothing else quite like it: working his knot into the tight, pinched furl of his captain's ass, spreading his cocks inside him while he fingered his mound to slick-dripping indigo.

 

He worshipped his captain's body, from the firm of his biceps, to the pinchable meat around his tum. And, of course, the velveteen lump at his crotch, nerve-rich and easily bruisable when Kraglin gathered it in his mouth...

That, Kraglin loved most of all. He had played with it a thousand times, felt it quiver and seep against tongue, fingers, each of his cocks. He couldn't remember what it was like – the anticipation before he unzipped his cap'n's pants that first time on the Bridge. And to think he'd been  _disappointed_ when he didn't find something he could fuck!

 

Of course, it was far too good to last.

 

They had been edging each other lately. Kraglin had a vague idea that he could cum just from having his knot played with, but it was cap'n who put it into practice. Hence why Yondu currently had a foot wedged down there.

His toes were flexible, built for climbing. Or so Kraglin presumed; no sense in asking. He'd discovered early on that enquiries into Yondu's past were met with cold grins, subject changes, and locked cabin doors – the Ravager equivalent of a night on the couch.

 

Those toes curled around the ridged knot, careful not to clip the dual-shaft above. Every so often they squeezed. But the more Kraglin wiggled the looser they gripped him, until he forced himself to remain stock-still. He received his reward: a rock of Yondu’s foot.

Captain’s eyes were pink slices. Poured over the bed face-up, Kraglin hunched over him and his raised leg crushed between them, Yondu elongated across the cushions in a liquid feline stretch. He purred a deep-chested “ _Good_ ” that made the beads on his necklaces vibrate.

 

Kraglin whined around his mouthful.

 

He gave as good as he got. That was the way they both liked it; the authoritative offices of  _cap'n_ and  _mate_ could crumble here, just a little, where there were no eyes on them but each other's. No one in charge, not unless they were in the mood for it. Just a pull and a push, and a push and a pull, as Kraglin lapped through the slick. He withdrew whenever Yondu's abdomen started to show through his pouch. 

This was his favorite part. He had gotten Yondu to the state of navy flush that precluded either an orgasm or a whistle. It could go either way, depending on how much Kraglin teased him - and despite the growing burn in his belly, and the bounce of his pricks as he bucked against Yondu’s sole, Kraglin was less focused on his own imminent orgasm as he was on making his cap’n  _writhe._ He smirked up at him, dabbling the tip of his tongue down the nub's smooth center...

 

Then froze, when he tasted blood.

“Uh. Boss?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **There will be a bit more, uh, character-centric plot in the upcoming chapters, don't worry. And you'll find out why this fic is called 'Ninja Turtles'!**


	2. Conflict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CN: talk of past non-consensual invasive medical procedures, traumatic semi-birth scene.**

Yondu should’ve known.

 

Later, that would be all he could think - that he _should’ve known,_ because this had happened before. But Martinex, after conducting what few non-invasive tests a newly-freed and snapping slaveboy would allow, had concluded, somewhat uncertainly, that the effects of the experimentation were likely to fade with age.

 

That ‘somewhat uncertainly’ was the problem.

 

* * *

  

“D-don'tchu fuckin' dare stop...”

Yondu ground forwards, smearing his crotch over Kraglin's face. He was losing control. Were he a lesser man – or were he with a lesser man than Kraglin – he might feel annoyed about that.

Twitches spasmed through him. A toenail jabbed Kraglin somewhere painful. But as Kraglin had yet to bitch, Yondu bypassed it. He could bypass it all, until Kraglin reared away.

 

“Sir!”

 

The knot under his foot was flagging. Yondu could feel it – the softening ring drooped around his base. Skin gathered in folds. The dicks above remained hard (and, Yondu had learned, they would remain so until Kraglin came: a fun quirk of Hraxian biology). It was the knot that signified arousal, and right now, that signal couldn't be clearer.

Yondu grumpily dug in his toes, trying to stimulate. Kraglin shunted his hips back while shoving at his ankle.

 

“Stoppit. Sir, yer bleeding. Fuck. I musta nipped ya-”

 

“Can't feel nothin',” Yondu panted. It was more a whine actually – a push of words through his  teeth as he squirmed, trying to catch his mound on Kraglin's stubble, his nose, anything.

Kraglin had gone cross-eyed. If Yondu only looked down, he would see the blue clinging to his chin, and the way his mate's eyes bugged wide enough that you could tell from the yellowed whites that he needed to eat more vegetables. 

 

“Shit, sir. I can see right inside. Thas' fuckin' _deep_.”

 

Really, that should have tipped him off. But so sue him, Yondu was close. And he'd been close for _hours._ Rather than diving for the bathroom, he could be forgiven for turning his attention to stroking his smooth blue groin. If Kraglin wasn't gonna service him, he could at the very least sit there and look pretty and let Yondu squirt on his face.

 

“Can't feel _nothin'..._ ”

 

Until suddenly, he did. Wetness. Not his usual greasy concoction. This was more watery, and copper-smelling.

And there was the slit.

 

Aw,  _hell._

 

 Spewing denials wasn't going to one bit of difference, but Yondu tried anyway. He tucked, a hand over the deepening gouge, which divided his groin into neat blue halves. “No, fuck, not again, c'mon, this ain't fair, _no_...”

He needed something. A pouch, ideally. He had one close to hand, but his mind rebelled, There was something disturbing about the thought - like a sister sticking her ovipositor in her sibling.

 

However, he found himself faced with a lack of alternatives. It wasn't like there were any other carriers in the vicinity. Kraglin's abdomen didn't play host to an envelope of skin (although Yondu was desperate enough to check, dragging clawed fingers through the fuzz, in case that had changed since the last time he kissed down Kraglin's treasure trail to suck him).

 

And so, failing a pouch... He needed water.

 

“Sir?” Kraglin's face was more gaunt than ever. There was a smear of blue blood on his underlip. As Yondu hissed and tensed, feeling something _detach_ inside him and start the passage down, he licked without thinking about it, and grimaced at the taste. “Sir, whas goin' on? Do I need to call Mijo -”

“No!” Yondu snapped. His foot remained perilously close to Kraglin's groin. When he gave him a boot – gently, of course; didn't want to damage nothing – Kraglin meeped and folded, clutching Yondu's bare calf. “No doctor!”

“P-point made, sir. But this ain't right, you need help!”

“No, I need, I fuckin' need...”

 

He needed to get to the shower. _Stat._

 

If kicking Kraglin away and rolling off the bed took concentration, walking was almost beyond him. Despite Kraglin's panic, there wasn't much blood. This happened regularly, back in the day when it was just him and his crest and a bunch of curious Kree scientists, wondering if parthenogenesis could be possible if they only gave his reproductive tackle some tweaks.

They'd rejected the idea, of course. Too small a gene pool made for flawed and faulty soldiers; it was why cloned batches had never replaced battle slaves. But during that experimental interim, when Yondu had been kept sedated and spread on an operation table while sterile hands massaged his mound and tested the consistency of the foam in his pouch, enough had been altered to make this a yearly occurrence.

True to Martinex's word, the frequency had been waning, as-of-late. So much so that this was Yondu's first batch since he left Stakar's crew.

 

Stakar had found out. Kinda hard not to, when one of your top earners vanished into his M-ship for half a day and emerged trembling and bow-legged, clutching his empty stomach and mumbling something about needing a mop.

 

He had been... well. _U_ _n_ _derstanding_ wasn't a word Yondu associated with the Ravager admiral, not anymore. Stakar had certainly shown his judgmental side when it came to the smuggling of a few brats for profit. And _yeah,_ Yondu wasn't nearly so blasé about that whole Ego shtick as he pretended, and _yeah,_ he thought of them dead kids every time he looked at his crew's latest addition - a mouthy Terran brat who had tried to convince Yondu to list him in the rosters as  _Star-Lord_. But back then, Stakar had given him a single once over - one look up and one look down. Then he had strode to the nearest supplies closet and fetched the mop and bucket.

Despite Yondu's staggering, shamed protests, he had performed clean-up duties himself, without saying a word.

 

Back in the present, Yondu gasped a single heartfelt “Bathroom!” and clutched himself like he'd forgotten to take his pre-shift piss break. From within the slice, there pressed something new, damp and warm. The indent at the tip flexed like it was trying to suckle on Yondu's palm - or perhaps, as if it was fighting against pushing something out. “Hurry, hurry, _hurry..._ ”

The urgency in his voice infected Kraglin, although he didn't understand it. He hovered at Yondu's side, stiff dicks forgotten.

 

Yondu barged the lanky git into the nearest wall. “Out the way!”

 

His guts hurt with the effort of holding them in. This must be what birthing species felt like when they tried to ward off contractions: like their body was preparing to turn itself inside out, spill snapped muscle fibers and intestines and worse across the floor. Walking was agony. Each lean of his weight onto the next foot threatened to sabotage his muscle control.

The ovipositor bulged inside him. Yondu clenched his jaw, veins standing out in his neck and temples. He squeezed his fists until the ripple receded. Then, ignoring Kraglin's winces as he peeled himself from the new dent in the pipe, he inched forwards once more.

He hadn't had a choice when Stakar found out. The man had walked into his M-ship of his own accord, and had seen the puddle of steaming eggs, smelling like raw meat and afterbirth.

He'd known everything about Yondu, each painfully intimate detail that had been recorded in his slave file, from the date of his first appointment with the laboratories to the operation log from when they removed his crest. There'd been no escaping that knowledge. His own tragic goddamn backstory was forcefed to him every time he and Stakar locked eyes.

 

But with Kraglin? Yondu controlled that information. He was the one who cranked the tap open or shut, deciding how much he revealed. He refused to forego that power. Not for the sake of all the gold in the galaxy.

 

Definitely not for the deluge of unfertilized eggs, the color and texture of semolina, which spilled from him as soon as the lock clicked shut.

Yondu sagged down the wall. Necklaces batted his chest. His knees buckled inwards, and he stayed upright through willpower rather than strength.

 

Each eggsac was separated by a membrane, thin and gooey, which provided a little cushioning against the tile. They left him in a slick gobbit. The sound of it hitting the floor, an obscene slap, made nausea battle the pain in Yondu's guts. A noise lurched from his throat that he refused to call a whimper.

The bathroom had a shallow camber, centered around the drainage duct. Yondu kept his watery gaze fixed on that, clutching the door handle as his body convulsed.

 

First was worst. He remembered that. Indeed, he squirted out the next load – and the next, and the next; five boiling, stinking spurts of life - with a sick ease, feeling himself push into the contractions as if he was being puppeteered.

 _Potential_ life, that was. He didn't know much about Centaurian mating procedures. Only what he could learn from his own body: that during these episodes he was overwhelmed by the urge to lay his eggs in a warm, damp space where they could incubate peacefully. Should there be no nearby pouches, the closest source of stagnant water would suffice.

 

But surely they wouldn't _all_ hatch? Even if they were delivered into the proper anatomical place, and spruced with a delicate misting of spunk, that was a helluva lot of eggs. And they were so small – like tapioca balls, empty and white. The likelihood of them _all_ being fertilized was biologically infeasible. Right?

A few had gotten underfoot. Yondu sank into a squat to deliver the last batch. Once the final shudders and splatters had wracked their merry way through him, he braced his back on the door and flipped up one sole to inspect. He found it caked in burst membranes and juice. Pulling a face, he placed it back down in the gunk, eggsacs squelching between his toes.

 

The slit was already resealing. Yondu would give that to the scientists who'd fucked about with his genome – they'd at least made sure their mess cleaned up after itself. The ovipositor sucked into his body, a retreat that Yondu felt deep into his bowel. His mound sealed over, skin grafting together. Eventually, there was nothing left but white-smeared blue. It was more tender than usual, and raw around the join, but at least it wasn't dripping.

He stayed squatted a few more seconds, just in case. And because standing was liable to have him face-planting in the gunk.

 

Outside, Kraglin wasn't so much _knocking_ on the door as he was _bodyslamming_ it. Each crash made the door quake in its frame. Yondu, relying on it to stay vertical, shook in time with the barges.

“Quit it,” he rasped hoarsely. And then, when Kraglin either misheard of disobeyed - “I said quit it!”

A sharp intake of air. Silence. Then, tentatively: “Cap'n?”

“Yeah?”

“You alright?”

 

Yondu rolled his eyes. Levering himself upwards, he held onto the wall and took a tentative step to make sure he wasn't going to faceplant.

The birth canal _twinged._ But at the very least, it was sealed inside him now. Once sure nothing was going to drop off, Yondu found his balance, ignoring the spin in his inner ears. He stomped through the puddle, crushing as many beads as possible, making 'em burst like he was popping bubblewrap. He dialled the shower to full.

Five minutes and one pried-off drain cover later, he had said goodbye to his little friends. He felt ready to face the music.

 

Or not. Because once he emerged, Kraglin immediately tried to grab him. Not roughly – just to cup his face in his hands, to check him over with frantic eyes and fingers. Yondu stood pliant under the inspection. For five whole seconds in fact, which was impressive by his standards. But then, inevitably, he snapped.

Kraglin didn't notice the glare. It took an all out _snarl_ to have him sheepishly tucking his hands into his armpits, under the threat of losing them.

 

The single-way valves in his dicks meant the poor things were looking more turgid by the minute, despite the flaccid knotflesh beneath. They waggled as he shifted from foot to foot, and Yondu would've laughed if his innards didn't feel _hollow,_ like someone had given him an enema with a rusted icecream scoop. He did his best not to clutch his stomach, and forced his spine straight with the same determination with which he was keeping his legs from crumpling.

"What?"

Kraglin nodded to Yondu's nub. “S'that...”

“It's fine. It's...” He wasn't going to volunteer details. Didn't have to, didn't want to. “Nothing."

 

It was a lie, and Kraglin knew it. Worst of all, Yondu _knew_ that he knew it – but he also couldn't be bothered to cook up anything more scathing, let alone believable.

“I wanna sleep.”

 

Kraglin glumly poked his dicks. “I s'pose there ain't no chance of pickin' up where we left...”

 

The words trailed away as he met Yondu's eyes. Behind him, tucked in its holster and perched reverently atop a pile of cracked and glitching datapads, the arrow began to glow.

 

“Right. No, I see thatcha don't wanna. S'fine by me, sir. You, uh, go get tucked in. I'll sort myself out.”

 

He thumbed over his shoulders, eyes darting between Yondu and the arrow as he retreated into the bathroom. The door skidded closed between them.

Yondu bowed at the waist. He hunched around his diaphragm like he was out of breath, shoulder propped against the chilled steel wall.

 

Kraglin had ordered him to get comfortable – or at least, he'd made a very adamant suggestion. And while Yondu _could_ disobey out of spite, he wouldn't deny that he wanted his bed.

 _A nest,_ his mind supplied. When Yondu collapsed belly-first on the sheets, still mussed from their earlier romp, he landed with a hand pinned against his pouchskin. It agitated the hollowness inside him, testing a tension there that simply didn't exist. Then, when it realized what it was doing, curled into a fist.

 

Yondu buried his face in the sour-scented pillow. He inhaled his own bad breath until the stuffiness became claustrophobic and his head felt like he'd shut it in an oven. He rubbed his mound again, just once to make sure – and sighed when he only found skin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He was tired. He was cold. He didn't want to think, let alone issue orders.

 

Kraglin nibbled his lip raw, and fretted, and squawked about _going on Bridge to keep up appearances; c'mon boss, you can do it, this ain't like you._ Yondu ought to smack him for daring to insinuate that his cap'n required _goading._ He would've done too - except that the goading wasn't working. Right then, he was too lethargic and sluggish to move.

His belly felt _empty._ The eggs had gone, but their absence burrowed under the surface of Yondu's mind, a space-parasite that had drilled through bone and cartilage and lodged itself in the soft tissues beneath, too deep to scratch.

 

He wanted to cut himself open. Rip out the bits that caused this, so that he could never, ever, _ever_ be humiliated in such a way again.

 

He wanted to clamber down into the lime-crusted tunnels that wound around the _Eclector's_ grumbling watertanks and scoop as many handfuls of jelly into jars as he could find.

 

And most of all, he wanted to whistle until Kraglin stopped talking.

 

He only did one of those things. Kraglin scuttled for the door that conjoined their cabins, while Yondu whistled the arrow back to rest, letting his eyes droop shut once more. The ensuing silence was mighty satisfying.

Until Kraglin called from the threshold, the sound of crunching dry leather and a zip heralding the yank of his jumpsuit up his hips: “Ya sure you don't want the doc, sir?”

The nearest shiny thing was a snowglobe, one Yondu had acquired through means extra-legal, the last time they made port. Yondu stretched to reach it, wincing as his stiff obliques pulled. He juggled it contemplatively from hand to hand. Tested the weight. Eyed up the distance between his bed and the door. And then, in a single draw and release, hurled it.

 

Kraglin ducked. Just.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kraglin didn't contact Doc. Not because he didn't care about Yondu (he cared far, far too much; it was one of his issues). But because people with practitioners' degrees who were willing to suffer the grimy conditions and general hazardous nature of a Ravager lifestyle were few and far between. He didn't trust a grouchy captain to remember that Mijo wasn't expendable.

Cap'n was back on deck within the week anyway, clomping around and barking orders and boxing Quill's ears. So whatever it was that had split the skin at his groin, only for it to seal up without a scar afterwards, Kraglin figured Yondu would tell him when he saw fit.

A month later, Yondu still hadn't spilled the beans. The galaxy, in typical sadistic fashion, took matters into its own hands.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _Just a bout of spaceflu,_  Yondu told the men.  _Might be contagious, but I can still whistle, and if ya don't behave I'll prove it._  Kraglin nodded along, because what choice did he have?

 

But over time rifts healed, and people did too. After his first month back on Bridge, spent sprawled across his throne as he oversaw the tracking, hunting, pillaging and scuppering of not one but four flouncy Nova cruise ships, Yondu felt like himself again. Like he was undefeatable. Not the sort of man to be laid low by a batch of slimy eggsacs, squirted out a tube that'd been spliced to his body by cold gloved hands.

Kraglin still seemed concerned. But worrying was the man's favorite hobby - after stealing shinies for his captain's collection, fucking his ass, and tinkering away at his M-ship undercarriage. Yondu let him get on with it.

 

Equally, he paid no heed to the stories. Every ship had 'em. Gather your crew from ports as various as the galaxy was wide, pour their myriad superstitions into a cauldron, stir thrice, add grog, and season, and you had a recipe for gossip – and for interpreting every creak in a cosmic storm as an omen. In the crews’ eyes, omens portended Beyonders, which would fasten their otherworldly jaws around the  _Eclector's_  hull-plating and suck until their three dimensions shattered into gibbering fractal nonsense. But while new omens were identified daily, Beyonders had yet to manifest.

No, stories was stories. As cap'n, Yondu didn't have time to listen to 'em.

He didn't have much of a choice though, when the same crap was being spouted by a quarter of his Bridge crew  – men who were supposed to be smarter than the average Ravager (admittedly, not the highest hurdle). But when Quill joined in, the issue became a problem. Yondu couldn't ignore it any longer. Last time kiddo got scared of what went bump in the night, he came to the captain’s cabin every damn cycle and pounded on the door until Yondu either relented and let him in, or whistled.

 

It was possible to sink onto your first mate's cock, rolling your groin over his springy belly hair, while a weepy juvenile hollered outside the door. But it weren't all that enjoyable. Quill's yodelling was of a pitch and volume that weren't conducive to arousal.

His natter about critters in the drains wasn't much better.

 

“Rats, is all,” said Yondu. That breed frequented ships, especially those of the mature description (while the Eclector might be forever twenty-one in his mind, even Yondu had to acknowledge that she clanked a little more than she used to). They were nasty, scabby things, festery with disease. Parasites grew into their skin until they were more shell than fur.

Yondu sat on the edge of the bed, pants bundled on as a vague nod to decorum. Kraglin, not having reached his jumpsuit fast enough, was now the proud model of a sheet-toga. Yondu had insisted – last thing he wanted was this Terran brat getting an eyeful. 

 

Kid was prepubescent, no more than eight by Yondu's tentative guesstimation. Innocence didn't last long on a Ravager crew. But curiosity did. Yondu had done a modicum of research into Terran biology, enough to assure him that should Kraglin's tackle (or Yondu's lack thereof) be exposed, they'd both be facing questions at a lightyear a minute. Possibly even –  _shudder_ – attempts to poke.

He already regretted giving the brat all-hours access coding. But what other choice was there, when half the damn crew thought he'd make better bolognese than a pirate?

Yondu crossed his arms. He gave the kid his best mugshot leer, in the hopes Quill would choose the rats over his snaggly silver teeth. “Ain't nothin' to get so het up over," he growled. "Now quit yer jittering. Ain't no use for cowards on this crew.”

 

Quill was dancing. That was nothing new. But for once, he wasn't flailing his limbs with his usual uncoordinated _joie de vivre._  He bobbed about not because his little hips were swinging to the beat of his music box, but because he was too nervous to keep still. He craned at the sagging hammock of pipes overhead, funnelling coolant and water to the engines, as if he expected one of the critters to drop down and shank him for snitching.

 

“N-no! This wasn't a rat, boss! I swear! It was a worm! Size of my finger - but it had  _eyes_.”

Yondu awaited further explanation. When none arrived, he massaged his scarred temple and pondered how much it would cost to send the kid for a semester of biology lessons. “Eyes.”

“Yessir! Eyes like yours.”

 

Intriguing, but far from admissible evidence. Yondu pointed to the eyes in question. Then, when Peter nodded, rolled 'em. “Red-eyed worms? Probably carnivorous – I'mma feed ya to 'em, just to check.”

Quill was terrified for all of three seconds. Then he relaxed, with what looked very much like relief. Yondu twitched a bald brow ridge. “Whassat?”

“You said you were gonna eat me for supper next week, if I couldn't deassemble and reassemble a plasma pistol in thirty seconds. So at least I ain't gonna die before that.”

Little shit sounded cheerful about it too.

 

“Yeah,” said Yondu, acting like he didn't forget every threat he tossed at Quill the moment it left his mouth. “But that don't mean I can't make your life hell in the meantime. Never said I'd let the worms eat  _all_ of ya, did I?”

 

That had the blood draining from Quill's plump cheeks. Again – second time in the same minute; Yondu would give the kid an aneurysm if he kept on. Kraglin wouldn't mind so much, except that cap'n had a tendency to play rough with his trinkets, then bitch when they broke as if he hadn't been the one to stomp on the glass bauble to test its crush-point in the first place.

“Sir,” he said. “C’mon now. Play nice.”

 

Yondu puffed up. “Nice? We're Ravagers, Kraggles, we don't do nice...” And, as his attention was on him, Kraglin shot Peter a glimmer of a wink and jerked his head at the door, much as he could without tipping cap'n off. By the time Yondu had done lecturing on the quota of pleasantries allowed in a space pirate's day-to-day life – the number being very small, very select, and mostly relegated to orgasms – he turned to find an empty cabin.

“Huh? Where'd he...?”

 

“Rat ate him,” said Kraglin cheerfully, and tugged him backwards onto the mattress by his beltloops.

  

 

* * *

 

 

Unfortunately, the rest of the crew couldn't be brushed off as easily as a Terran kid with an overactive imagination.

 

They'd fetched him a dead one. There weren't no arguing with evidence when it was placed on a plate before you, presented slit from throat to thorax to show off its glistening navy intestines.

 

Yondu leaned his elbows on his knees and knuckled at the implant's sore lip, where tension had a tendency to make the veins bulge. He decided that today was going to be a long one.

“Red-eyed newts,” he repeated, in the hope that their tale had been an auditory hallucination, and Tullk would correct him. No such luck. Half-nut twitched in agreement, and Taserface crossed brawny arms over a brawnier chest, Horuz mirroring in stouter fashion besides him. Their glares dared him to call bluff. Luckily for them, Yondu wasn't in the mood for fending off a mutiny. “All as big as this one – bout the size of a man's hand. Right. Some sorta infestation then. Why don't we smoke 'em out?”

“Because,” said Taserface, “they're in our water supply. I ain't drinkin' none of this ‘til they's gone.” He kicked the wall besides the faucet. Limescale flakes drifted to rest on the floorplates. 

Yondu shrugged. “Have fun with that. Saves me killin' ya. For the rest of y'all, who ain't about to go on hydration strike – why don'tchu do somethin' useful for once in yer sorry lives, and search the Xandarian archival databanks for info on these freaks?”

 

There was good-natured grumbling from Tullk, which was ignored, and groaning from Horuz, which was treated similarly. The only one with a valid reason to dispute his order was Gef, who couldn't read and probably should never have been promoted to the Bridge crew in the first place. 

Yondu didn’t actually remember how that had happened. He surmised that he’d been drunk and Kraglin had egged him on (neither of which were dangerous individually, but when combined, they promised a disaster on the same incendiary scale as nitro-glycerine). Until the day Yondu fished out the requisite datapad and slashed the dolt back down to rookie-status, here Gef would remain, filling the sweaty low-roofed Bridge-space with the smell of toe jam and the stale gruel he saved in his beard for when he got peckish mid-shift. 

 

Of course, as soon as Yondu excused Gef from research-duty the rest started claiming illiteracy. It took a hearty bout of swearing to calm 'em down. But Yondu didn't have to whistle, so he counted it a victory.

 

When the dinner buzzer went off, he snapped his fingers before Kraglin could trot after the others. He nodded to the dead thing on the plate, its juices congealed around it like the slime from one of them gelatinous hagfish-eels you could buy deep-fried on Knowhere. “You see anythin' strange?”

Kraglin, pulling five unique and nuanced expressions of disgust, slipped a holo-stylus from behind his ear. He gave it a tentative poke. Then reared back when it slithered – not moving, just pushed through its own secretions by the prod. “I see a helluva lotta strange here, sir.”

“Naw, idjit. Look.” Yondu took the stylus. He poked at four points along the tadpole-like body. Four points where limb-like stubs had been in the process of forming, before the critter fell foul of Taserface’s purloined galley sieve. “These ain't fuckin' newts, Krags. They're nymphs. And whatever they grow into, I sure as hell don't want it on my ship.”

 

Kraglin's coloration went from whey to porcelain. “Hell,” he croaked. Yondu nodded, glad he understood the gravity of the situation. Then shoved the plate under his nose, for the delight of watching him squirm.

“Take this to the galley then. No point wasting meat.”

“Yessir. Wait – shouldn't it go to a lab, or somethin'? Test the tissue, and the like?”

 

Yondu considered. Shrugged. He rarely conceded a good idea that hadn't originated from his own genius, but this was serious. If they'd been finger size when Quill saw 'em, and palm-size now, this shoal of freaks was growing fast. He had to oust them while they were young enough not to bite back.

“Give it to Doc,” he ordered. “See if she can work out where they're from – and how we get rid of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WUH WOAH**


	3. Climax

Kraglin was still skittish around his cap'n's crotch – careful not to let it feel the slightest graze of teeth, as if expecting it to spontaneously shred. It was fun, having him lap so carefully at the little mound between his legs. Then it got kinda dull, then outright boring, and finally, at long last, irritating. The slow, wet streak of saliva, renewed with every lick, tantalized without pushing for a peak.

 

Yondu flopped a blue arm over his eyes. His groan wasn't exaggerated. “If I hadda dick I'd be goin' soft.”

Kraglin pouted up at him, stubble glistening with what little slick he'd coaxed to the surface. “I – uh – but sir -”

“Get out, or get the vibe. Your choice.”

 

Kraglin chose the latter.

 

* * *

  

It hadn't been an intense session, not by their usual standards. More gentle throbbing, rubbing against each other while the vibe-sphere buzzed away, cupped between Kraglin's dicks and Yondu's flat groin. But Yondu was never adverse to food, and Kraglin was the sort of guy who needed to eat constantly to stay vertical, thanks to a lil' buddy who dwelled in his lower intestine, and who occasionally gave Yondu a nasty shock when he kicked in the night.

(Yondu had quietly stopped topping after  _something_ latched onto his strap-on and left toothmarks. Judging by his eager assumption of that position whenever they were in the mood for squashing genitals into holes, Kraglin wasn't complaining).

 

They sauntered to mess after sponging off, and the silence was very almost comfortable. Cap'n being cap'n, he got his first pick of the delicacies.

“This's been taste-tested, right?” He gestured to the choice cuts from the second newt they'd caught, samples from the first having been bottled up and dispatched to Mijo's medbay. They were sashimi-thin, shiny with natural oils, and almost as _bleu_ as they were blue.

 

Taserface, looking wonderfully ridiculous in the hairnet Yondu insisted he wear around the galley, nodded. Whether or not he was lying, most poisons didn't give Centaurians more than heartburn. Tasie had tried it every couple of months in the beginning, before he realized this gave Yondu the excuse to blame any naturally occurring bout of indigestion on him and haul him up in front of the crew for ritual-humiliation-at-arrowpoint.

For some reason though, despite the mouth-watering appearance, the meat made Yondu's stomach rebel the moment he put it in his mouth. This was a mighty shame, because Tullk had fetched a half dozen more nymphs from the traps, and it looked like they would be bolstering their meat stock with marine life until they make the next port.

Had Tasie left it out too long, let it get rancid? Only one way to find out.

 

“Hey, Kraglin. Wanna try?”

 

But his first mate gulped down the springy, raw sliver Yondu slipped him with gusto. “What?” he said, when he caught Yondu squinting, waiting for him to retch. He spoke with his mouth full, saliva and half-chewed meat glistening on his tongue. “Tastes better raw.”

“Yeah, nah. I like my meat cooked. Stops me gettin' tapeworms.”

“Huh.” Kraglin patted the inwards dent of his belly. “Yer just jealous of my figure, sir.”

“Amazed you ain't dead yet, more like. Here.” Sighing, he scooped the pile of diced meat onto Kraglin's protein mush in a smatter of juicy blue.

 

Halfway down the table, Scrote hurked and spat out his mouthful. “The hell is that?”

“Thas newt!” Yondu hollered. Scrote, ever the drama queen, pawed at his tongue and pulled faces that would be ugly if 'grotesque' wasn't his baseline. “You'll eat it an' you'll like it, or ya won't get no puddin'!”

Half-nut, sat besides Scrote and cackling manically under his breath, was treated to a fist to the ribs. “Tastes gross!” Scrote complained.

“Tastes fine. Quit whinin'.” And it _had_ tasted okay – it was something else that'd stopped Yondu savoring the morsel. Something he hadn't put a finger on. But eh – Doc would have those results to him by the end of the cycle. Then he'd know what sorta eldritch critter he had welcomed aboard – and hopefully, how he could kill it.

 

Fire, he decided. That was usually a safe bet.

 

* * *

 

He sent Quill off with Oblo and Tullk to check the traps on the ship's toppermost side. This was all well and good in theory, because hey, who better to provide free childcare than goons contractually obliged to follow his every command?

 

More fool Yondu though. Because _of course_ one of the ugly lil' blighters was still alive by the time they reached it, and _of course_ Peter decided it was his new pet.

 

“No,” Yondu said when he spotted the trio straggling in, down the steps into the Bridge. It was always muggy in here – that being part of the reason why Yondu selected this room for their stronghold, as the humidity kept his skin from feeling like it was gonna flake off. The proximity to the engine block meant that they had to deal with the constant _whoom_ of the fusion core, and the occasional _fwoom_ when its temperature dipped far enough to allow for fission instead. The background radiation would make most Geiger counters crack across the screen, but the anti-rad pills the Ravagers popped with their breakfast rations went some way towards countering it.

Anyway, if his Bridge crew weren't of sturdy enough constitutions to hack off the occasional cancerous growth, then that was their problem.

 

All in all, Yondu _liked_ the Bridge. What he liked less was the sight of lil' Peter Quill, tottering towards him with a tank clasped in his arms and a smile on his face that would put most skulls to shame. Inside the tank, bonking repeatedly off the glass, was a wriggly blue tadpole – albeit one whose arm and leg struts were more developed than the last one Yondu had seen.

Yondu could count _toes._ Foetal, freaky, webbed toes.

He shuddered. Then shuddered _more_ when some weird primal instinct tried to insist that the sproglet was cute.

 

Hell no. Baby mammalians? Small terrans with big blue eyes? Trinkets for his M-ship console? It wasn't _acceptable_ to find these thinks adorable, not from the man who'd drummed such an aversion to sentiment into his clan. But at the very least, those things were conventionally adorable. This, with its bulging bug-eyes and waggly tail, was anything but.

“No,” he repeated – seethed, more like. He glowered at his crewmen. “You two. The hell you thinkin' – why didn't ya kill it?”

Tullk rubbed the back of his head, wincing as his nails caught dirty braids. “Kid said he'd scream, sir.”

“So?”

“So ya know how noisome he can be. We was right above a sleeping dorm, sir. Didn't think it were proper to wake nobody up.”

“That ain't what 'noisome' means... Never mind. Look, I don't think it's _proper_ for ya to okay the brat pickin' up a pet without consultin' me! Off, both of ya. Be glad I ain't whistlin'.” Tullk and Oblo were good men, brave men, stalwart on the battlefield and loyal on ship. But while both were less-than-expendable in Yondu's eyes, he put a lot of effort into ensuring they didn't know it. They blanched and scuttled away, leaving Peter to struggle with the weight of his water tank solo.

 

It sloshed, a wave breaking over Quill's jacket-front. The nymph nosed perilously close to the top. It opened its little mouth, and Yondu saw the first pinpricks of fangs – an inwards-hooked row of 'em, kinda like Half-nut's.

“Put that down, idjit!” he snapped. He stood in a clatter of necklaces, whistling his arrow to strike-poise. He was just _waiting_ for the ugly varmint to pounce, propelled with a squirm of that tail, and latch onto Quill's nose.

But while Quill obeyed – huffing, puffing, bending at the back rather than the knees (Yondu's ached from watching, but of course the kid was made from rubber, and he bounced upright immediately) – there was no splosh and no scream. Just the pathetic paddle of the newt's webbed finger-stubs, and the roll of its lidless pink-red eyes.

 

They were the exact same shade as Yondu's own. Weird.

 

“Stand back,” he growled to Quill. He stalked forwards, tattered coattail flared behind him and arrow keeping pace. “I'm puttin' this down.”

Quill blanched. He held his ground, tiny fists clenched to the point of trembling. “No you ain't!”

“No you ain't,” Doc Mijo agreed. She limped down the steps as fast as her gammy leg let her. Yondu was grateful for the intervention. The kid looked ready to fling himself between Yondu and his target, possibly even hit him – or worse, _start_ _crying._

 

Yondu sneered, lips pursed in a soundless whistle. He considered guiding the arrow round Quill in a zip of bright red light, and offing the newt under the pretence of teaching the kid a lesson about getting attached. But that ran the risk of Quill trying to catch the damn thing, and burning his palms to the point where he wouldn't be able to hold the mop that Yondu planned on assigning him, in penitence for disobeying a direct order.

Plus, there was Mijo to consider, who tugged earnestly on the crook of his arm. “Sir? Sir, you need to see this. Here, sir...”

 

She thrust her scanner in her face. It revealed two wobbling mugshots, side by side: his and Kraglin's.

 

Yondu scowled at them, scratching his goatee. He waited for something dramatic to happen, or at the very least for a few words to scroll by in a translatable dialect, which would tell him what was going on.

“Very pretty pictures of us ya selected, Mij, but I don't see what this has got to do with -”

“It's the genetic make up, sir! Of the newt you gave me!”

 

“Huh?” Somewhere, deep inside Yondu's brain, a part of him that he kept swept under a carpet of obfuscating stupidity started to make panicked noises. Yondu ignored it. “The hell you on about, woman?”

“I'm on about the fact that _this -_ ” Mijo pointed to Quill. The boy froze, caught in the act of tiptoeing back to the tank. “It's no bioweapon,” Mijo continued. “Or invasive species, for that matter. Sir, it's _made_ from you and Kraglin, on a genetic level.” She dipped her voice, glancing at the navs (who dutifully ducked back to their consoles like they weren't eavesdropping on every word). “Not artificially either, as far as I can tell. This happened the traditional way.”

 

The lengthy pause infected every corner of the Bridge. It spread from Horuz and Scrote, who were on external holofeed watch, scanning their radars for threats or prey; to Kraglin himself, who lurched at Mijo's little revelation and accidentally slammed a button that had their engines misfiring along the starboard side, setting the entire galleon in a dizzying spin.

It matched the whirl in Yondu's brainpan.

He staggered to his chair, inner ears roiling and breakfast getting ready to regurgitate, half-chewed slice of nymph and all.

 

Morlug shoved Kraglin out the way so she could fix his mistake. The idiot simply stood there, gawking between Yondu and the critter in Peter's tank, bottom jaw dangling halfway down his chest.

“Thas...” he whispered, as Morlug slammed in the override sequence and recalibrated their thruster output until the _tilt_ alarms quit their noisy blare. “Thas our...”

 

Quill, who'd grabbed the tank for a bit of stability when the ship first began to swirl about on her axis like she was being flushed down a pangalactic toilet, blinked at the nymph close range. “If you and Kraglin made 'em, then why does this one looks more like Half-nut?”

Half-nut, dangling off his seat with a comm-bud still tucked in the greasy depths of his earhole, began stuttering denials. “But I'm not... “ He pointed at his cap'n, then away again, grubby fingernail swivelling to his own chest. “We never...”

“No,” Yondu agreed, steepling his fingers and resting his forehead on them. “We never. So how...” He trailed to silence.

 

Eggs. Raw genetic matter. Showerblock. Drains. _Water._

 

* * *

 

 

“Why do you think Centaurians are hairless?” Mijo asked him once, after that incident when he was flying with Stakar's crew, as she helped him to his bunk in the crew quarters. She'd agreed to keep him in the medbay until all tests showed positive results – but as there was nothing _wrong_ with Yondu physically, only a lingering sense of lethargy and the certainty he'd lost something he couldn't replace, that meant that he languished on a sterile pallet for a single twenty-four-hour cycle. He was due back on shift tomorrow – and would be there as well, because there was no medicine like the challenge of relieving wealthy fuckers of their fortunes.

Yondu had shrugged. “Humid planet.” That much he'd figured out for himself – he tended towards multiple layers of leather, anything to keep the heat trapped against his skin. But Mijo shook her head.

“Partially. But the main reason is that they – you – had an aquatic evolutionary stage. Even now, while a pouch is optimal, Centaurian eggs can be fertilized and survive, so long as they are laid into stagnant water.”

And – well. You didn't get more stagnant than the _Eclector's_ sewer.

 

* * *

 

 

Now, in the present, Yondu resisted the urge to dig his thumbs into his temples until they punctured his skull. “Everyone out,” he said hoarsely. His Bridge crew were only too happy to obey. Mijo and Kraglin lingered though, as did Quill – although his eyes were fixed on the nymph rather than Yondu, and he jumped when the cap'n growled. Mijo decided it was in her best interests to scarper when that growl rattled into a threatening whistle. Kraglin, however, had always been bold to the point of suicidal where Yondu was concerned.

“Sir?”

Yondu sunk low on his seat, chin brushing chest. No sense hiding it any longer. “After I... D'you remember? Month back?”

 

Kraglin watched the nymph swim round its tank, oblivious to the wedge it had rammed into Yondu's life. Shit - had _he_ looked like that once? A lil' Yondu tadpole, stewing with a half-hundred others in his daddy's pouch?

He wondered what had happened to his siblings. He probably ate them, he decided.

 

“Course I do,” Kraglin said softly. He glanced to Yondu's in the reflection, pallid face wobbling in time with the swirling water. “Kinda hard to forget."

Yondu didn't have the energy to think _ugh, sentiment,_ much less cajole himself into believing it. “Well. What'd ya get up to, when you showered afterwards?”

“Uh...” Kraglin contorted like he suspected a trick question. “Washed down, soaped hair,” he began, counting 'em off on his fingers. “Jerked off a bit too...”

 

Yondu snapped his fingers. “Everyone jerks off in the showers.”

 

“Ew,” piped up Quill. The brat was still in the phase of pulling faces at pretty girls rather than trying to wheedle his way up their skirts – long may it last. “That's how you get ninja turtles, guys.”

Yondu opened his mouth to ask before deciding he didn't want to know. He and Kraglin surveyed the newt instead. If it had hair follicles – assuming Yondu's genetics weren't dominant in that regard – Yondu reckoned they'd grow just as long and ratty as Half-nut's.

 

“Shit,” Kraglin said.

Yondu clenched his chin so hard that any non-metallic teeth ran the risk of shattering. “We're gonna need a bigger tank.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Given the variety of genetic material Mijo had isolated thus far, jerking off was a concerningly regular pastime for all crewmembers endowed with a cock. Yondu wondered if he should start a clocking-out card system for whenever they went on bathroom break.

 

Wretch, second in command of the galley, groused something rotten when Yondu stormed into his kitchen. He swore even more when the cap'n slammed the button that had his soup cauldron swinging off the industrial-sized broiler and upending into one of the serving vats. Of course, as the conveyor belts weren't yet lined one up, there was nothing to catch the deluge.

Broth splashed the drainage grills in an aromatic, savory tidal wave. Now Yondu knew what it was he was smelling, it was impossibly less appetizing.

 

He clapped a hand over his nose and mouth, forcing the gag back down, and – once his stomach had stopped trying to invert and hang out of his mouth like the innards of a frog – turned to pin Wretch with a glare so fierce he didn't dare complain that they had wasted a whole crew's worth of meals.

“I'll chop us some salad for tonight sir,” he said, and scarpered.

 

Yondu was left with a gaggle of galley recruits, surveying the drippage as it filtered into the same drain system that was housing his goddamn kids.

 

His spawn. Accidentally created, never wanted. Yondu was of half a mind to order a caustic system flush and be done with 'em.

But hell. Quill had fished another one out of the bogs – before he sat down, luckily. It had Kraglin's eyes.

 

It was currently swimming in Quill's tank besides the Half-nut half-breed (named inventively, at Quill's decree, 'Quarter-almond'). Yondu was oddly proud to note that Kraglin's looked more developed.

 

He had yet to put out an all-comms message to explain the situation. This was partly because he was procrastinating, partly because there was other shit to deal with, and mostly because it would lead to awkward questions regarding his genitalia – or, if he opted out of unzipping his fly on camera; rumors, which were far worse.

All in all, if there was one ray of sunshine to be taken from this shitfest of a situation, it was that Quill was too young to be tugging one out in the showers. Yondu didn't think his sanity would withstand seeing one of these frail blue wriggly tadpoles with freckles, or ginger fluff on their scalp.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Sir,” said Kraglin quietly. He stood in the doorway of the galley. The chefs' assistants, all eager to relocate to somewhere their cap'n wasn't, scattered around him. A few even bumped his shoulder. Kraglin would snap, but he understood that right now, paying respect came secondary to survival.

Yondu looked pissed. But that was like calling one of Taserface's curries 'mild' rather than 'a trial of masculinity'.

Boss sneered at the splattered soup, fists hard bundles of bone and blue skin. The quiet plip of droplets into the drainpipe was the only sound, besides the angry pant of his breath.

Kraglin took a step, moving counterflow. Behind him, the last of the galley crew siphoned into the corridor, some still clutching their ladles and others their flatpacks of dried fiber flavoring-stock.

 

“Cap'n,” he said.

 

“What.”

 

Kraglin dared for another step. His boot treads squelched and skidded over slices of unripe yaro root. “Back then... In the bathroom... Ya laid eggs, didn't ya.” He knew from the set of Yondu's shoulders that he ought to stop pushing. For once, he disobeyed – this was something that had to be said. “Ya could've told me, boss. I'dda helped you get rid of 'em. Y'know I would.”

Yondu cleared his throat with a hoarse crackle. “Majority'll be yours,” he said. “Ya jizzed over 'em before they had time to float off.”

 

Kraglin refused to let that phase him. In truth, he was struggling to process – Quill had always lurked in plain sight, and while Yondu never directly referred to him as son, Kraglin knew 'family' surpassed relations formed strictly by blood.

But now there were creatures out there, created from him and Yondu, _together._ It was a wonderful feeling and a terrible one, all at once.

 

“D'you wanna keep 'em?” He sidled until he could nudge his shoulder against Yondu's, if he stooped. “Cause I'm up for it, if you are.” Pause. “Maybe not Taserface's brats. He can have those.”

Yondu's laugh cracked out of him without permission. “Don'tchu go playin' favorites. They've all got a bit of me in 'em, don't they?”

“Mm.” Satisfied the galley was empty – that it was only them and the smell of their half-baked progeny for company – Kraglin slipped his fingers through Yondu's. “Thas good enough for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONGRATS ON SPOTTING THE JAWS REFERENCE! And long live the Obfonteri-Udonta clan and their creepy tadpole-spawn.**

**Author's Note:**

> **:claps: if you like it then ya should've left a comment on it!**


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